


blues and purples and pinks

by breadcrow



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Unrequited Love, its too short, only a little bit tho, really sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26943760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadcrow/pseuds/breadcrow
Summary: The valley was someplace where he’d return every spring. If not for anything else, then for Moomintroll.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	blues and purples and pinks

Snufkin remembered the cool breezes, the swaying of the harebells among the grass blades, daisies and forget-me-nots being woven into a slightly askew crown, the lovely troll happily enjoying the silence as they sat next to each other.

He remembered the small offering of that very flower crown, the smile of the troll. The afternoon flying away, casting the wildflowers in darkness, and turning the white fur into a dusky purple. The beating of his heart, the pink on his cheeks, all so very vivid.

Oh how he loved that wonderful summer afternoon, ending with names of constellations on his lips and flowers in Moomintroll’s fur. Returning to Moominmamma with her warm smiles and hugs, Moominpappa with his memoirs and Little My’s sharp tongue. Sniff’s knack for making things more interesting, and Snorkmaiden’s kindness.

The valley was someplace where he’d return every spring. If not for anything else, then for Moomintroll.

* * *

The first time it happened was the summer after that afternoon. Harmonica in his pocket, tales ready to fall out of his mouth, a broken hook in hand. His other hand just hovering over the knob, as a conversation floated over to him. An exchange of love and affection between Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden. A dull ache in his chest and a little pinprick of blood where Snufkin had clenched his hand too hard.

The second time was a warm day filled with music and sitting under spring shade, flowers on his hat, and the wonderful troll sleeping next to him. Glances of his friend giving him immeasurable content, letting a song of a lovely morn fall out of his instrument. Then, a voice, offering an afternoon of collecting shells and such. The ache returned, turning his notes sour.

And soon, those times that rarely came appeared more and more, making the pain in his chest grow. Things that would usually pass him by started to upset him and his emotions were progressively getting complicated. Much too complicated for him. It wasn’t the first time he had heard of the arrangement between Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden. As long as they were happy, Snufkin shouldn’t care at all. He disliked all this fuss and wanted to return to the quiet, peaceful days of the previous seasons.

Perhaps Snufkin needed time alone.

* * *

Standing at the end of a cliff, a salty breeze swirling around them, grey clouds in the distance, the churning of the waves below, so many things that sings, but the pink shell grasped in white paws dulls the music. He doesn’t even know if he has hated an inanimate object this much before, or perhaps he hated the person who gifted it. He can’t hear Moomintroll, but he already knows the words spoken.

So, Snufkin smiles, and ignores the burning in his chest. He’ll do that much for this lovely troll that he loves so very much.

Even if he wakes up choking on forget-me-nots the next morning.

* * *

Staring at the loops and curls of his feelings, the calm of autumn already giving into the chill of the winter, the knowing feeling of the tall house some distance away packing up, ready for their annual slumber. Running his fingers over the paper, Snufkin kept his eyes on the house. He wondered if the letter would change anything if he actually gave it to Moomintroll. The gentle tracing stopped and he simply tucked it into his pocket. Perhaps he should leave his goodbyes in another letter, go before the reluctance of the troll was burned into his mind and the ache would be carried with him for his entire journey.

Then there’s pain and flowers bubbling up in his chest, petals landing onto the leaf-covered ground, blue contrasting the reds and oranges that were lingering. Breathing heavily, blooms still falling from his mouth, iron on his tongue.

Snufkin needs to leave soon.

* * *

Snufkin pretends to not feel the burning in his eyes, the taste of spring so vivid in his mouth.

Moomintroll had found him packing up. The dejected tone of his friend and the expression he makes when his voice cuts and flowers start to turn up, little flecks of red dotting the blues and purples. Choking out a quick explanation, reassuring, apologizing, promising, then excuses. Walking away, heart clenching, hands trembling.

And all that runs through his mind is those blue eyes that are just the right shade, the softness of the white under his paws, the utter guilt of promises that will never be fulfilled, that he knows that even if he is dying, even if he was begging for him to stay alive, the troll would never, with all his heart, say that he loved Snufkin.

Because he didn’t. Not like how he loved him.

* * *

Mismatched steps and mismatched breaths, the feeling of thawing snow beneath his boots, spring flowers unfurling, stems in his throat, the sounds of birds in the distance, the weight of his pack, the heavy letter in his pocket. Grass blades and trees transition into a well-known path and a bridge with too many memories. He never reaches it, instead collapsing onto the ground. Blues, purples, pinks, and the occasional white spill out, all speckled with red.

More are pushing out, bloody petals and buds. He can see himself shaking, but his chest hurts more, twisting and pulling, tearing through his trachea, and he thinks he might be crying, tears flowing, but he can’t see, can only feel the wet on his cheeks and he can’t breathe, his inhales and exhales all confused and he’s choking and the green he knows that is in front of him is blurring and there’s something about all this that seems so quietly deafening and

Then everything stops.


End file.
